


Just a little scrambled

by FatHobbitLover (orphan_account)



Series: Nearly Okay [3]
Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Coping, M/M, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 18:58:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/FatHobbitLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>On nights like these, it's more likely that Chris'll have a nightmare than Piers- and yeah, maybe it's a little selfish if Piers is okay with that, but then again, he's always been scrambled.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just a little scrambled

**Author's Note:**

> Last piece of this series was more from Chris's view, so I decided to have this one be more focused on what it's like in Piers' messed-up eggshell.
> 
> Taking a short break from Outfielder- I've been getting a few questions about that. The next chapter's almost done, I just need to go through it a few more times. Not abandoning it, no worries. ;)
> 
> I've totally fallen in love with these two in this AU. So you'll see more of them as well. Not ending this series any time soon, either.
> 
> "Can't you see that I am losing my marbles;  
> it's marvelous losing another, losing another.  
> I am no good for you-  
> I'm seeing ghosts in everything I do."
> 
> \- Sia

  
  


Chris buys him the scarf for his birthday.   
  
It's thick and green and warm and he puts it on when he opens it, to see the light in Chris's eyes. He can read Chris like that- he knows what to do to make him smile, or laugh, or shut the hell up, because sometimes it's hard to get him to stop talking.   
  
Chris drives a shitty, rust-covered pick-up truck with paint peeling off the doors and he loves it the way he loves Piers: unconditionally, nonsensically, in a foolish, reckless way that Piers doesn't understand. He takes Piers out for dinner in that truck, with the windows rolled all the way down and the wind tangling in Piers' brand-new green scarf and Springsteen's  _Born to Run_  on the radio.   
  
 _It looks good on you,_  Chris says, glancing over at Piers, who's fiddling with the scarf absentmindedly.  
  
 _Keep your eyes on the road,_  Piers says, hand dropping from the fabric like it's white-hot.  
  
It's a cheap dinner, with greasy fries and overcooked burgers. Chris's big feet bump clumsily against his while they eat and at one point he even leans across the table to fix Piers' glasses, which have gone crooked again.  _There you go,_  he says, concentrating hard on straightening the frame; his fingers stay against Piers' temple for a few seconds longer than they need to and Piers thinks that it might be one of the best dinners he's ever had.   
  
Back at the flat Piers picks out the movie- an apocalyptic horror.  _Zombies,_  Chris says, looking at the cover, his face falling, his teeth worrying over his bottom lip.  
  
 _It's my birthday,_  Piers reminds him, and Chris takes a deep breath and pops the DVD in the TV, fingers twisting into the sides of the couch nervously when he sits down.   
  
Piers doesn't like zombie movies, not particularly. They're unnecessarily gory, with little character development and poor special effects. But by the end of the movie, Chris will be so scared that he'll practically be sitting on top of Piers, his arms tight around him, breath warm against the sniper's hair, wide eyes fixed to the screen while Piers leans against his chest and listens to his heartbeat.   
  
And so that's worth it.   
  
After the credits roll Chris locks all the doors and windows and refuses to go into any room by himself. Plus, he wants to sleep with the lights on when they finally get into bed- and when Piers says no, he compensates for it by snuggling up to the sniper and holding on, limbs tangling under the covers, Chris's heat warming Piers better than any blanket could.   
  
 _Wuss,_  Piers says.   
  
 _Shut up,_  Chris mumbles, pushing his face into the crease between Piers' neck and shoulder, mouth tickling the sniper's skin.  
  
On nights like these, it's more likely that Chris'll have a nightmare than Piers- and yeah, maybe it's a little selfish if Piers is okay with that, but then again, he's always been scrambled.   
  
He puts the scarf on again in the morning, while Chris is still snoring, wrapped up like a cocoon after having pulled all the blankets over to his side of the bed again. And after it settles around his neck he looks up at himself in the mirror, at his too-thin chest and his skinny arms and his hair that sticks up all over the place in the morning, before he's had the time to brush and gel it. His glasses are already slipping down the bridge of his nose. His fingers are already fluttering nervously. And the scarf around his neck is thick and green and warm, like a big, soft piece of Chris clinging to him.   
  
He doesn't understand why Chris loves him-  _that's the word, isn't it?_  Piers isn't muscular enough. His eyes are empty. He's dangerously thin. And there's the ghosts that haunt him when he sleeps, refusing to let him be, climbing into his dreams and souring his waking moments.   
  
When they go out into public he's constantly analyzing the area for possible exits. When he hears a car backfire he hits the deck, cheek pressed against the floor, eyes screwed shut, expecting bullets to start whizzing over his head at any moment. He keeps a knife under his pillow and a gun strapped to the underside of the passenger's seat.   
  
 _What's that?_  Chris had asked when he'd seen it, the barrel of the gun peeking out.   
  
 _A gun,_  Piers had said, staring out the window.  _M1911 semi-automatic,_  he'd added a beat later, wanting to be specific.  
  
Chris had glanced at him.  _I know it's a gun- what for?_  
  
And Piers had looked at him like it was obvious, like Chris was an idiot for asking.  _Ambushes,_  he'd said.  _Keep your eyes on the road._    
  
Chris hadn't argued.   
  
He never argues.   
  
They probably wouldn't be together if Chris hadn't been in the military, if Chris hadn't known what he was signing up for when he'd taken the sniper in. Any normal person would've ran, fast, in the opposite direction rather than stay and fix him.   
  
But Chris isn't normal. If anything, he's a little scrambled himself.    
  
Piers tears his eyes away from the mirror, unwilling to meet his own gaze for much longer. And then he feels Chris- feels him before he sees him, feels his arms slide around his bony waist, feels his hands ghost along his rib cage, feels his lips pressed against his shoulder.   
  
 _Morning, babe,_  says Chris.   
  
 _Yeah,_  says Piers.  _Whatever._  
  
So sharp- so fucking cold. He can't help it, doesn't know why he does it, doesn't know how to stop. Piers wants to tell Chris that he doesn't deserve him, or that Chris deserves more than Piers, or that he's sorry, for everything, for still being here.  _I'm broken,_  he wants to say.  _I'm tainted. I think I love you, maybe._    
  
 _I like the scarf,_  he says instead, and for some unfathomable, inexplicable reason, Chris hugs him tighter.


End file.
